


Keep Breathing

by Rosawyn



Series: Fingerprints and Soul-scars [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, M/M, Memories, POV Bucky Barnes, Past Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson is a Gift, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-17 15:46:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3535064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosawyn/pseuds/Rosawyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marks are for those with souls, and the Asset has none.  So why does he feel he knows a man he cannot know?  Why does he seem to remember things that could never have been?</p><p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2032749">Glitches in the System</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Breathing

**Author's Note:**

> You don't _have_ to read "Glitches" first, but I do hope you'll read it as well. (I kind of hope you'll read everything in the series, tbh, but that's the only one that's really linked to this one in any significant way.)

When the Asset pulls the man from the river, he sees he's breathing, and that's good. That's _something_. Breathing was always the most important.

The man, his Mission, called him 'Bucky,' insisted his name was James Buchanan Barnes, but he doesn't feel like 'Bucky' and he certainly doesn't feel like 'James Buchanan Barnes'.

He doesn't—cannot—understand why he knows this man, why he's always known this man, why he always knows this man— _can't_ know this man. The man...the man on the... Was there a...bridge? A bed. A train. Couch cushions on the floor. A room full of rust and pain and... _I thought you were smaller_. It always hurts. It—

The man has a mark—two marks. The Asset's eyes stutter. He has to close them and swallow to keep from vomiting.

He crouches, his head spins. Maybe his head spins first.

But there are two marks, and there was blood. There _is_ blood. Blood on his hands—and what had the man said? Was there a name? Other than 'Bucky James Buchanan Barnes My Friend, please don't make me do this.' That was the Asset. But, the man... Men have names. Assets don't. Shouldn't. Can't.

And he just wants to fall asleep and never wake up, but the man is hurt. Badly. Someone beat him up, some bully and—

The mark can't change, because he has— Had. Marks are for those with souls, and the Asset has none, and this man couldn't have been his, because...

His flesh fingers, wet and cold and shaky, brush the mark—he has to hold them in his metal ones, because the flesh arm is damaged, but he— He shouldn't—can't—know which mark, must be a guess, fifty-fifty chance, and that doesn't—it's not possible anyway, but...

The mark goes blue—and he's shaking everywhere, and he wants to just fall and let the blackness take him and never wake up, but—

Someone beat him up, some bully. There was blood on his hands and blood in the water. The mark turned blue, and he can't be his; it's impossible, but—

He finds a phone—so old it's rare, but somehow— Dials the number wrong on his first try because his metal finger slips against the metal of the buttons, but he tries again, because— He _has_ to. “Please,” he tells the woman on the other end. “My friend is hurt bad. He needs a doctor.” He gives her the street address, reads it off the signs. His friend almost drowned, but he's breathing, and that's always the most important.

She says they're on their way, says to stay on the line, but he _can't_ , because he can't see the man—his friend. Can't see if his friend is breathing, so he drops the phone and—

He's breathing. He's hurt bad and he's bleeding. But he's breathing. That's always the most important thing.

o0o

When they come to help his friend, they tell him he's hurt too, tell him he needs to come with them. He needs to watch, to be sure his friend is breathing, so he nods and lets them lead him. They are the doctors who help. Have to be.

“He has to keep breathing,” he tells them. And they say they know.

But they want to know his name, and—James Buchanan Barnes. He can't write it for them, can't even spell the middle part, but his flesh arm is damaged, and his metal hand... It's not meant for pens. They say it's all right; they'll just put 'B' for the middle part.

They want to know how old he is, but— He doesn't know. How could he know? He doesn't even know—

They want to know the other man's name, his friend's name, his Mission...but the Asset can't— His eyes hurt from staring, but then someone says, “Are you kidding? That's Captain America. This was on the news.” And that doesn't sound right, but they write and they don't ask the Asset again.

He could leave. Maybe he _should_ leave. They couldn't stop him, wouldn't know how.

But where would he go? All the safe places are gone now.

He wants to see his friend, but he knows the doctors are taking care of him now. He was hurt bad. But they know he has to keep breathing.

He could come back. He could come back and see his friend again later, but—

The doctors can't fight. Don't know how, don't have any weapons. Someone needs to— There are still more—more bullies. Who hurt those they find—

Vulnerable.

He doesn't let the doctors help him. He wants to, but he can't. He hides in the corner of the room with his metal arm across his eyes.

The hospital is big, but he'd still know if someone came to hurt his friend. He'd know. He might know too late, but... He'd know.

They're scared of the Asset. They should be. They want to help him. They shouldn't. They speak about him, voices low. They think he can't hear. They say he's Captain America's soulmate, but— They want to sedate him, drug him, strap him down to keep him still. They probably should. But they can't. They couldn't.

And then there's the other man, the one who had wings. Dark skin and dark eyes. He could fly. Like an angel. But the Asset hurt him too, so why is he _here_?

He's crouched, patient. Calm. “Bucky—can I call you 'Bucky'?”

The Asset blinks at him from under the metal of his arm. “I don't know.”

His hands are dark like—like— There was someone—a friend? A friend of _Steve's_. Steve has friends. Men have friends. Assets can't. Don't. “How about 'Barnes'?”

The Asset bites the inside of his cheek. It _doesn't matter_. How could it matter?

“Look, Steve's going to be all right.” _Fear not, for I bring_ —

The Asset nods. “He's still breathing.”

The other man nods. “That's right.” His brown eyes are gentle. “I'm Sam, Sam Wilson. I'm a friend of Steve's.” That's right, Steve's friend, the angel, but...

“He's my friend.” Maybe he meant to argue, meant to say, 'He's _my_ friend'— _not yours; you can't have him_ , but it comes out small and scared and broken.

Sam lets out a breath. “I know; Steve told me.” Steve talks to angels; it's not a surprise. “And pretty soon here, you can see him again.” There is a warm light in his eyes—his soul shining through? Like a halo of golden grace, glimpsed in a— “But while you wait, do you think you can let the doctors help you?”

The Asset bites his lip, looks away. Blinks a few times. His eyes hurt. “I don't know.” He bites his lip again because, “I don't want them to get hurt.”

Sam lets out a breath again, and it seems maybe he understands, but... “Would it help if I was here with you?”

The Asset digs his metal fingers into the flesh of his thigh until it hurts. “I don't want you to get hurt either.”

o0o

But Sam helps the doctors, and they're calmer, less threatening. Less threatened? Sometimes it's hard to tell what kind of doctor a person is, one who helps or one who hurts. Because sometimes pain is needed to help, and sometimes help is needed to hurt. They dim the lights and speak softly, and no one tries to strap the Asset down so he can't move. Even though they should. But they can't. So, maybe they shouldn't. Shouldn't try. Maybe.

And Sam helps the Asset, even though he should stay away, but the Asset doesn't hurt the doctors. Doesn't hurt Sam—again.

He has to wait.

He's still breathing, they always say, and they could be lying, but—

He'll wait, for now. Sometimes he has to wait. That's always the hardest—

He doesn't know how long he waits. It's always too long.

o0o

He can't check his neck in the mirror, because he doesn't have another mirror. If he could use his flesh hand, he could feel it, though. He's always been able to feel the scar.

o0o

When the Asset sees Steve again, Sam's there, because Sam has barely left his side. Sam is _Steve's_ friend, should have been with Steve, but— They were both waiting. With doctors, sometimes you have to wait, and that's always the hardest part. It doesn't matter how long it is; it's always too long.

And Steve is very still on the bed, and he could just be sleeping were it not for the wounds. Wounds _he_ put there—a bully beat him up. Hurt him bad. But he's _breathing_. That's always the most—

And the Asset is crying, pressed against the wall, crouched down, turning his face away, and Sam is speaking softly, telling him he's okay, that Steve's okay, but he's _not_. Steve is hurt—again. And he's the—

None of this could ever be okay.

Sam lets him sit on the floor.

When the Asset stops crying, he is quiet. Steve is still breathing, and if he's quiet, the Asset can hear it.

Sam leaves a bottle of water near him on the floor. He's opened the top. It would be difficult to do that with one hand. His flesh arm will heal soon; he always heals fast, because—

There was a room of rust and pain. It always hurts. Steve on a train, reaching. There was blood on his hands.

But he's still breathing.

He chokes a bit, drinking the water. But he needs it. Needs it to stay—

When Steve awakes, he asks to see Bucky—he's trying to smile in that sad way he has. There's music playing, Sam's music. It's soothing. And the Asset is still there—they haven't made him leave—so he pulls himself to his feet and tries not to press too hard back against the wall.

“You were hurt,” the Asset says, and he can't start crying again, not now. “You were still breathing. I—” He looks down, tries to stop shaking. “I made sure.”

Sam is explaining in that gentle, calm way of his how Bucky pulled Steve from the river and called nine-one-one, and how they've been waiting together. And Steve is staring at the Asset like he's a miracle, like Jesus stepped down from heaven to grant Steve his most fervent prayer.

“The mark turned blue.” The Asset tugs at his hair with his metal hand until it hurts.

Steve's eyes are all softness and tears glistening just inside the line of lashes, and he says, “Yeah, Buck.”

“But how can I be yours?” He's pressing so hard on his mark that he can almost feel the scar from the way his metal fingers push it back into his flesh.

“I was...” Steve looks down at his hands. “A glitch, Buck. I had two, but we weren't a triad.” He looks back up, eyes meeting the Asset's once again. “I know that's confusing, and I'm sorry. I—”

The Asset shakes his head. “No. No.” That's not—not what this is about. He shouldn't have any marks, but the one he has... “The _scar_.” His gaze flickers between Steve and Sam, helpless.

“Oh.” Steve's gaze drops to the blanket. His voice is quiet, sad. “Peggy—” He clears his throat. “My mark on Peggy scarred when the plane went down. She even got a—a secondary soulmate.” He looks at the Asset again, and his smile is so sad Bucky wants to do _anything_ to make him happy again.

Bucky takes a step towards the bed. Then another. “I'm sorry.” His voice is rough. Everything hurts.

When he's close enough, standing near enough, Steve reaches out and his fingers brush against the sling they've put on his flesh arm. “I'm sorry I hurt you.”

The Asset hangs his head. “I made you.” He bites his lip. “You begged me not to, but I did it anyway.” There is pain in Steve's eyes, and Bucky wants to take it away. “I'm sorry,” he says again.

“I'm still sorry,” Steve says, fingers gentle as they cup Bucky's elbow. “I guess we're both sorry.”

The Asset wants to tell Steve how he didn't hurt any of the doctors. This time. How he didn't even hurt Sam...again. But Bucky knows those aren't things to be proud of, so he just swallows his shame. “What can I do?” he says finally, squeezing his eyes shut. “I want you to be happy.” He wants _so badly_ to make _something_ right.

And Steve takes his metal hand, squeezing it—Bucky hadn't expected that, and he blinks down at where Steve's warm flesh fingers are wrapped around the silvery harshness of his own.

But Steve says, “I'm happy you're alive, Bucky. Happy I'm alive too, and that you saved me, and that you let Sam help you while I was—while I couldn't. And that you remembered me.” And he's choking a little, and fighting to keep the tears from escaping through the wall of eyelashes.

And Bucky feels like a fraud, because he hardly remembered anything, but— “I just wanted to protect you.” Because that was the truth, more than any memory. That desire to protect Steve had broken through— “You were hurt, hurt bad.” A bully— _the Asset_ had hurt him. He looks down and sees the Asset's hand in Steve's.

He wants to pull it back, but— He doesn't want Steve to be sad.

There was blood on his hands. There was _always_ blood on his hands.

Bucky just wants to crawl into Steve's arms and stay there forever. Lulled to sleep by a beating heart and the steady rhythm of his breaths. But he can't. Because—

He blinks, shakes his head. “If the mark—the one on my neck—is scarred...how can yours still...go blue?”

“I—” Steve glances at Sam then back at Bucky. “I don't know.” But he's still holding the Asset's metal hand, hasn't let it go.

Sam looks thoughtful. “I don't think this has ever happened before. I mean, other than Peggy Carter...” He looks at Steve, but Steve shakes his head.

“I couldn't ask her to do that.” He lets out a breath. “So...I guess I don't know if her mark on me would still react. I mean, I doubt it...”

Bucky bites his lip. His metal fingers twitch in Steve's grip. Peggy got a _secondary_ soulmate. “I don't want a secondary soulmate.” The threat of another mark appearing twists, cold and sick, in his gut. Assuming he even has a soul? But, Steve's mark still went blue... “I just want you.”

And Steve squeezes his hand and says— “You have me.” _You'll always have me, Bucky_.

'Till the end of the—

And Bucky is crying again, but his face is pressed into the soap-scent of the hospital pillow, and Steve's hand is gentle in his hair. He hadn't meant to—

There was blood on his hands.

And the mark went blue.

But the most important thing is that he keep breathing.

**Author's Note:**

> There will be even more to this story (a sequel to this), if I ever actually get around to finishing/posting it.


End file.
